


cat and mouse

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Genderbending, Genderswap
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-11
Updated: 2012-11-11
Packaged: 2017-11-18 11:14:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/560426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes and Jane Watson go undercover one night, but Jane finds herself kidnapped. Her only hope is that Sherlock can reach her before something awful happens, perhaps even giving her a chance to show her feelings for him…</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sahoin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sahoin/gifts).



Jane wasn't sure how to react when she found a wedding ring in Sherlock's coat pocket.

Not that she was snooping or anything of the like- no, it had been one of those times again when he, focused on a microscope (always a microscope... it probably meant something, but nothing that her all-too-human mind was close to figuring out), suddenly demanded that she read him his text messages. From his mobile. In his pocket. Of his coat. On his shoulders.

It wasn't that she _minded_ it, exactly. Perhaps it messed with her stomach a little to reach into it like that, to actually feel around inside the coat until she located the phone, but not necessarily in a _bad_ way. A bit... uncomfortable, that was true, and all the more so because he was so matter-of-fact about it she could hardly believe that there was a heartbeat under his practically robotic exterior- but she felt it each time she had to do such a task for him. And maybe, just _maybe,_ she'd let her hand linger a little there, feeling the light pulse that had so much meaning to her as a doctor, and yet more meaning to her as his... flat mate. That was all she was. His flat mate. Irritatingly.

No, she didn't _like_ him, and that was what she would have told anyone who asked. Because it was none of their business, and she wasn't the type to run around advertising her emotions, especially those she was uncertain about. She was a medical woman, one of facts, but that didn't mean she wasn't a _person,_ as well. She had private thoughts. And, well, some of those private thoughts might have been about the man she lived with. But they were private, after all. So saying, to others and, occasionally, herself, that all she wanted was to be a friend to him, couldn't hurt. Not that she wouldn't have complained if she'd gotten a little more.

But a wedding ring was just plain scary.

Her fingers had just found the cool side of the cell phone, and were wrapping around it, already withdrawing. In the process, though, they managed to dislodge another object that was there, sending it toppling out of the pocket. She let out a small exclamation of surprise, but Sherlock didn't so much as look up when the tiny box bounced off his leg and onto the floor, where it opened with a sharp snap.

Setting the phone on the table, Jane quickly knelt down, grateful that her injury hadn't been giving her much pain lately. There it was, that odd little box, sitting there with a delicate golden ring nestled in its creamy silken interior-

Wait.

That's a wedding ring.

_That's a wedding ring._

Suddenly very shaky, she rose back up to her full (and rather unremarkable) height, glancing slightly sideways at Sherlock. He didn't look the least bit perturbed. He didn't look the least bit anything, really. Still just gazing at something under that stupid microscope. Finally, he spoke, irritation flavoring his tones.

"What's _taking_ you so long?"

She opened her mouth, then closed it upon realizing that she had no idea what to say. _There's a wedding ring in your coat pocket._ "...Planning on marrying anyone, or do you just... carry this around with you?" she finally stammered.

"What?" he snapped, looking up. His annoyed gaze only rested on her for a half second before flitting downwards and settling upon the ring at his feet. "Oh, that. Pick it up, will you? Wasn't cheap, even seeing as it's not real gold..."

"I-" She was halfway to the floor again before it even occurred to her to protest, meaning that she had to look up even farther than usual in order to glare properly at him. "I'm not getting that until you tell me what's going on. Sherlock-"

"It's a long explanation. Don't want it to gather dust." The last word was formed with a delicate precision that hinted at impatience.

"Just tell me you aren't..."

"Aren't what?"

She blinked slowly. "...That you don't have the thing on your mind that most people do when they carry around a _wedding ring._ "

"I'm not going to marry anyone, if that's what you're asking," he replied in a disgusted way, as though the very idea was ridiculous. "Why would I ever do that?"

Even she wasn't sure of the exact words to her mumbled response as she once more lowered herself down, but the uncomfortable flush spreading over her cheeks was undeniable. For its sake, she remained out of view for a second longer than strictly necessary after the box was grasped in her fingers. Only when she couldn't possibly stretch those few moments any farther did she stand, slamming the ring box as lightly as she could onto the kitchen table.

"There." Jane tucked her hands into her pockets, waiting silently. When, after a full thirty seconds, Sherlock made no move towards offering any sort of explanation (but, in fact, had actually returned to his microscope), she cleared her throat meaningfully.

"Curious, are we?" he murmured, finally sighing and sitting back in his chair, eyes fixated on the wall. "If you must know, it's for you. Nice little shiny piece of jewelry, no cause to complain. And I've got one, too. Matching. Nice, isn't it?"

"What are you..." She was absolutely and completely lost for words. For _her._ He'd just said he wasn't planning on marrying anyone. So why was he offering to give her a wedding ring? What would she need a wedding ring for?

_Who wants to bet that I'm missing something 'obvious'... again..._

"I... really don't..."

"It's for tonight. Short little job, shouldn't require much effort. Just stand there and look blank, you're good at it." He stood up abruptly, pushing the chair back with a sharp screech and tossing a plastic cover over the microscope without bothering to remove the slide. Without another word, he was reaching for his coat and pulling it on. Jane watched the predictable movements of his hands silently as the scarf joined it. "Come on!" he called, already somehow on his way out the door.

"Wha-" Scooping the wedding ring box off of the table, she hurried after him. "Sherlock, wait!"

He paused in the doorway, turning around in a slight spin. "Oh, best not call me that anymore. We're Robert and Samantha Jones now. Mr. and Mrs., at that. Don't wait up!" And he was, in a flurry of his usual Sherlockian speed, down the stairs.

Jane looked down at the ring in her hand, back up, and down again. Then, with the tiredest of tired sighs, she followed him.

"At least tell me what we're doing," Jane insisted as the two of them slid into a cab. She still wasn't putting the ring on, but rather holding it delicately in her right hand, feeling the cool metal slowly leach the warmth from her skin.

"Infiltrating a party. Not that complicated. Like I said before, nothing you have to do, other than at least _trying_ to maintain the persona I've set up for you. I'm the one who'll be doing the listening. The host is a prime suspect in a recent murder case, and it shouldn't be hard to decide whether or not he's the guilty one. If he is, things will get a bit more complicated, but, well... I'll take care of that. Follow the flow of the rest of the guests. _Don't_ break cover, understand?"

"I don't even know what my cover _is,_ " Jane pointed out, not much bothering with patience. "I'm a... Samantha..."

"Jones. Samantha Jones. _Don't_ forget your last name, I'm afraid that's a bit of a giveaway."

"Yeah, I'll give it my best effort," she grumbled back sourly, scooting closer to the door to put as much space as possible between her and Sherlock. People told her, oftentimes in rather amazed tones, that they couldn't believe she actually lived with him without going insane, but the truth was that she wasn't entirely sure she did have a satisfactory mental state- on occasions such as this, at least. He was just so _infuriating._ It was ridiculous. Taking a deep breath, she continued through her teeth. "How about give me something to work with... personality-wise?"

"Rich, stuck-up, snobby. Just like all the other attendees. You'll find that the upper class comes with a single personality. One size fits all. Convenient."

"...Snobby... good..." she muttered sarcastically. _How am I supposed to act snobby?_ She'd never been much of one for acting, not in any form. Drama class in primary school was a nightmare. The few times before that she'd had to take on a role for one of Sherlock's cases before, things had turned out even worse. And acting snobby wasn't necessarily a thing she could even approach pulling off, what with- to abandon modesty- her natural personality being the opposite.

"Oh, and you might want to put the ring on," Sherlock added casually.

The ring. The _ring_ again. Even as she glared at him, he displayed his own hand, with a thing gold band glittering on the fourth finger. The sight was... bizarre. Something to imply that he was married was just so out of place. Sherlock, married- it didn't fit. Of course... she slowly, and with great reluctance, put on her own ring, grimacing at the sight of it. _Of course, it doesn't quite work on me, either._ It was... a bit repellent, really, the idea of... settling down. She was happy with the life she had. Marriage would... mess things up. Who _was_ there to marry, anyways? Nobody.

Nobody.

_So it's stupid that you're worrying about this, anyway, since it's completely irrelevant. The ring is on, now, isn't it? So focus on getting into character. Be 'snobby.'_

_I am going to be_ awful _at this._

She took a slow, deep breath, trying to collect her nerves, and gathered her hair into a ponytail, holding it there for a moment before letting it down again. This sudden outing was rather spur-of-the-moment, even for Sherlock, who was quite impulsive (she of all people knew this very well). If things went mercifully, then she wouldn't have to do much aside from maintaining this... Samantha Jones's character.

_Just calm down. Act casual. Sherlock probably won't talk for a full week if you fail this time around._

She'd just have to hope that the host here wasn't the person Sherlock was looking for. Because if he was... Jane knew that she wouldn't be able to stay neatly out of the fray like he wanted her to. She'd be right into it, and... well... maybe that wouldn't be so bad after all. There was no reason to dread action. It might even work out better for her if events did take that turn.

Of course, she had been hoping for a quiet night...

 _Oh well. You're just going to have to get used to the fact that living with Sherlock Holmes means no quiet nights... at all._ For some reason, this comment felt vaguely amusing to her, and the corners of her mouth tilted upwards as the cab lurched to a halt at a traffic light.

It was only a few uneventful minutes later, in a more residential area of the city, that they pulled up to the curb. A large house faced them- nothing mansion-like, but quite a few 221Bs could have fit inside it. There weren't streamers draped over it or anything equally garish, but a line of faintly violet lanterns along the path to the door indicated that a special event was occurring, not to mention the cars parked up and down the street.

_This is it, this is it... for God's sake, calm down, Jane, it's just a party... a party where you're undercover, but still..._

Too soon, she was climbing out of the cab, Sherlock was paying the driver, and then they were on the path, moving towards the house, so that she only had time to run through _rich, snobby, Samantha Jones_ in her mind once before they were in.

The place seemed bigger inside than out. It was all white, shiny surfaces and bright, warm lighting and sleek modern furniture. Very mature, as well. Most of the guests seemed to be in some sort of tight-fitting black outfit or other, and the level of noise was low and bubbly, like the thin wine in spindly glasses that most all of them were clutching. She suddenly became extremely aware of the thick, gray woolen jumper that she was wearing. Impulsively, she glanced over at Sherlock, but he couldn't have looked less out of place with his usual dark-colored suit.

"Sherlock," she hissed out of the corner of her mouth, "look at me."

"Hm?"

"Look at what I'm _wearing._ "

Though her whisper was quiet, a large number of people seemed to have picked up on the message it carried. She quailed slightly under the many heavily mascara-ed frowns sent her way. If Samantha Jones was a real person who'd unwillingly lent her identity to Jane, she probably wouldn't be too happy with the reputation drop. _Sorry,_ she thought vaguely, inching closer to Sherlock.

He glanced at her, up and down, and frowned slightly. "What you're always wearing."

She let out a thin hiss of frustration through gritted teeth, her eyes roving the room for an exit. They settled on a door leading to a rather promising, dimly lit hallway, and she immediately latched onto Sherlock's arm and pulled him after her, down it, until she reached what appeared to be a bathroom door. She shouldered it open, dragged him in, and closed it behind her, making sure to flip the latch to lock it.

For a long moment, she braced herself against the wall, catching her breath and letting the heat slowly drain from her face. It was several seconds before she realized that the light was off, and therefore she had just pulled Sherlock into a dark bathroom, where they now stood in silence. Feeling the blush creep back up, she fumbled along the wall, muttering "light switch" repeatedly under her breath until a pale glow finally illuminated the room. She squinted, focusing on Sherlock's tall silhouette. He was watching her without amusement, his own long fingers grasping the cord of a lamp perched next to the toilet.

"Thanks," Jane mumbled, finally starting to relax.

His expression didn't change. "You just made quite a scene."

"Well, sorry, but... I didn't want to attract... attention..." She slowly realized how idiotic she sounded. _Yeah, Sherlock, I didn't want to attract attention, so I grabbed you by the arm and pulled you into a tiny, pitch-black room. And closed the door behind us. Locked it, too, in fact. Nope, not conspicuous whatsoever._

"Of course not. You never try to do stupid things, they just come out naturally," he growled. "Like calling me by my name. Clever, was that?"

It took her a moment to remember the instance he was referring to, then her stomach lurched. "...Sorry."

"Sorry? I don't care if you're _sorry,_ you might have just blown our cover! Be more _careful,_ Jane. Just try."

"...I'll try. But wait," she added hastily as he made to unlock the door. "These clothes. I'm still wearing them..."

"Really?" he mused sarcastically, but it was just a vague remark to fill the silence- he was already glancing about. She watched as he opened a small side closet and ducked his head inside. A small exclamation of triumph was coupled with his reemergence, this time holding a hanger from which dangled a rather skimpy black gown. "Here, this looks like it ought to fit you. Probably here in case one of the guests spills wine on themselves or something of the like. Anything to escape public scandal."

"Scandal?" Jane repeated as Sherlock handed her the dress. "It's not like these people are _that_ well-know- and even if they were, I'd be surprised if you recognized them-"

"They're well-known in the underworld," he cut in impatiently. "That's what matters. If I called Lestrade in now, he could arrest half the attendees here without hesitating. But we're after someone much more elusive. Much more... interesting. That's why I'm holding out. Now put on the clothes and come out when you're ready." He was, once more, about to leave when she, finally focusing on the handfuls of silky fabric, spoke up.

"This is strapless."

"And so is everything else that these ridiculous people wear. Hurry up."

"Sherlock..."

"Robert now, remember?"

"My _shoulder._ "

"...Oh." That sound, one of quiet understanding, wasn't one to often come from Sherlock. He was always ahead of the game, voicing the declarations that prompted such a reaction in others. But for him to say it himself... that represented that something had truly escaped his system, that his mind had completely skipped over it. Very rare indeed.

There wasn't anything stopping Jane from showing her shoulder scar, not really. It wouldn't hurt her, not physically, at least. But there was something about the stares that she'd receive, the musings and mutterings of those around her, that was unbearable. _Besides,_ she told herself, _Samantha Jones probably doesn't have one. It's best for staying undercover._ It was good to have an actual, practical excuse- no, not excuse, _reason-_ to cover it up. And Sherlock seemed to have come to the same conclusion, judging by how he withdrew from the door and faced her again, considering.

"Then you're going to have to put a little more effort into this," he finally decided aloud.

"What... what do you mean?" Jane questioned uncertainly, not liking the sound of _more effort._

"Look in the closet if you want to; there's nothing there for a woman that covers the shoulders. Nothing at all. Even the shawls are designed to wrap around the upper arms, but not that high."

"So?" she prompted.

"So you're just going to have to keep wearing what's on you now."

"But-"

"Jane, I know you'll be able to do this. You're _Samantha Jones,_ " he added exasperatedly when she just stared at him. "Do you have any idea who she is?"

"Actually..." She shifted slightly. "No."

"Of course not," Sherlock muttered, then went on in the impatient tone anyone who worked with him was long used to. "Samantha Jones is one of the queens of the underworld. No one knows how she gets her money, exactly, but she's dripping in it, she and her husband both. She practically sets the standard for people like her. Meaning that if she decides gray woolen jumpers are 'in...' then they are."

"So it's like a popular schoolgirl setting the trends," Jane interpreted.

"See it whatever way you want to. All that matters to me is that you understand. You see what you have to do now, don't you?"

"...Not really."

" _Be_ Samantha Jones. Act like what you're wearing is completely reasonable, and like anyone who dares to object doesn't know what they're talking about. Of course, I doubt anyone _will_ object, but you need to be prepared. Also, don't make a point of socializing with them. Keep to yourself. It's better if they don't know who you're posing as. It's highly unlikely that any of them have ever seen Samantha in person, but if they had, it'll be immediately evident that you aren't her."

"Right... and... Sherlock?"

"What?" he growled, hand already on the doorknob.

"...Where are the real Robert and Samantha Jones?"

His face morphed into something that looked pleased, almost amused, as he answered her evenly. "I gave Lestrade a little treat. He'd been after them for awhile, but they hadn't interested me until now. If you were wondering why I came home so late last night, there it is."

"You were out arresting the two most powerful criminals in London."

"Something like that, yes." In a glimmer of sleek black fabric, he was out the door.


	2. Chapter 2

She looked after him silently for a handful of moments, then shook her head mutely, looking briefly at the dress in her hand. Now there was a new dilemma to face-- wear the ridiculous outfit and show the scar, or just go with Sherlock’s idea, which, for all his confidence, seemed impossible. _Can I just stay in here or something?_ she wondered vaguely. But even as that thought floated to the surface of her mind, a knock from the other side of the door echoed through the small room. “Just a minute,” she called wearily, opening the closet and hanging the rejected gown up on the slim silver bar running across its diameter. There was no way that she could leave a person waiting outside. It was with a small sigh that she turned back to the door, flipped the lock, and opened it. 

It took her a second to comprehend what she was facing, and that second occupied any time during which she could have gotten out of the way of the burlap sack heading for her. But then she found herself surrounded by folds of the rough material, the only light being a few faint pricks through it. She opened her mouth to scream and found it full of the fabric, choking her. Her hands lashed out but had nowhere to go, and a strong wave of claustrophobia ran over her trapped body. She felt herself stumbling, and then something strong gripped her head through the burlap. Jane attempted to spit out the fabric, but was unable to do much more than squeak as a hand from outside clamped over her nose and mouth. It took her a second or two to process the sweet scent leaking through the thick cloth, but once she had, her stomach turned over frantically. _Sherlock!_ Why had he left her like that? Where was he now? Weren’t they in a well-lit hallway? 

The little points of light were beginning to swim before her eyes, and she blinked heavily. _Hold on,_ she told herself, but her mind was a million spinning fragments, and a tingling had gripped her skull. Her legs felt rubbery, and she vaguely felt them slip sideways as her body folded down. The burlap was scratching at her back, but she hardly felt it. _Hold on... just resist it..._ but it was impossible to resist. Everything, emotions and thoughts, seemed to be a vague blur of a single grayish color. She noted faintly that she was moving, being dragged along the floor, but didn’t feel any pain. The numbness was rather pleasant, her head feeling hollow and her limbs completely limp. For what could have been a minute or an hour, she let herself float along, slipping in and out of awareness. 

Finally, once she realized she was no longer moving, things began to solidify. She shifted slightly on the floor, her fingers scrabbling at the burlap. Slowly, she located the opening of the sack, and pulled it over her head, blinking foggily as a lit room swam into view. Jane dragged herself out onto the cold tile floor and looked around. She seemed to be in another bathroom, this one bigger. Completely alone... she quickly got to her feet, grabbing at the wall when her legs began shaking. She couldn’t afford for them to buckle again. It was a bit at a time that she managed to inch along towards the door, but when she finally threw herself against it, it didn’t give. 

“Oh, god, _please,_ ” Jane mumbled, the words slurring slightly. She gripped the knob and shook it frantically. Nothing gave. “Please-- _help!_ ” she screamed, but she knew that, if whoever had drugged her was even somewhat intelligent, the room would be soundproof. Exhausted by this brief exertion, she slumped down against the wall, breathing heavily. A faint pulse of music thudded out against the floor, and she guessed that she was still in the house containing the party. Sherlock was out there. How long would it take him to notice that she was gone, and to realize that it wasn’t a simple matter of her walking out? _Deduce something,_ she willed him silently. _Figure some stupid thing out that tells you where I am, just... just get back here already!_

It wasn’t the first time she’d been kidnapped; far from it. In fact, it was rare that a case passed by when someone _didn’t_ choose to abduct her. And yet she couldn’t remember ever having been drugged before. Lured into a car, yes. Physically restrained and gagged, sure. Hit over the head with a gun, sure. But drugged... drugged was new.

 _I can add it to my list of life accomplishments,_ she thought sourly. _If I get out of here alive, that is._

She wondered every time if she’d escape with her life. And she had so far, obviously. Still... everything had a first time... and a last. This one just might be both. 

_Dammit, Sherlock!_

One interesting thing to consider was _who_ had taken the liberties of kidnapping her this time around. It was possible that Moriarty had gone for it again, but he had slightly more efficient methods than burlap sacks-- she knew that from previous encounters. She didn’t know of anyone else that he’d been getting on the nerves of lately, though old enemies were always a possibility. Could it be... what if the real Samantha Jones had gotten away from Lestrade?

“S... Samantha?” she called out halfheartedly, even in her knowledge that she was alone. There was nothing. Of course. 

_This is the part where I sit here pathetically waiting for my savior. Only not._ Hissing through her teeth, Jane examined the door carefully. It didn’t seem to have a keyhole on the inside, but-- she confirmed this with a couple of quick rattles of the knob-- she was certainly locked in. Who was stupid enough to have a bathroom in their house that only sealed from the outside? Unless they’d replaced it in preparation for taking her captive, which wasn’t too far of a stretch for her still-sluggish mind. 

“So I just wait?” she demanded of the empty room. It was infuriating. Sherlock was _right out there._ Or... her stomach lurched as another prospect came to mind. What if they’d gotten him, too? What if they were interrogating him-- hurting him-- while she sat here, completely helpless?

 _He’s smarter than that-- he’s_ Sherlock, _and he’d be disgusted at you for even thinking that he’d be as stupid as you..._ but quite suddenly, she needed to see him. Just know that he was safe. In a completely futile effort, she gave the door a good, heavy bang with her forearm that only increased her dizziness level. An angry wail stuck in her throat as the moments ticked by and her bruising arm throbbed painfully. The beat of the music from outside the room scrolled through an assortment of pop songs, until, quite suddenly, it stopped. 

Jane held her breath, eyes wide as she pushed her ear pointlessly to the door. The relatively soundproof walls, however, made certain that she didn’t hear a thing until a key was rattling in the lock. She jumped back hurriedly and backed away. Another drugging certainly wasn’t desirable. Slowly, the glimmering golden knob turned and the door swung open to reveal a tall, masculine figure steadily aiming a gun in her direction.

Well, that pretty much defeated any chance of escape. 

Still, the door was open now, and that meant that, if there _was_ anyone outside, they could hear her. With this in mind, she let out an earsplitting scream—wordless, and quite simply a universal plea that anyone within range would come and save her. 

Reward came in the form of a gunshot. 

Pain arched through Jane’s leg, and she crumpled with a faint yelp, her vision blurring heavily as she hit the ground. She gritted her teeth fiercely against the throbbing burn in her thigh, refusing to look at the blood that was surely staining her pant leg and probably the tiled floor, as well. Her mind was a mist of agony, but not so much that she couldn’t hold onto the faint thought of _stay quiet, or it’ll get worse._ She’d been shot before, but that didn’t mean she hadn’t forgotten just how much it had hurt. And now memories were racing back as though someone had broken a dam, recollections of the war—fearful cries of her comrades, the hot smothering of sun and how her sweaty clothes would stick to her, a merciless hail of bullets like fierce, heavy rain…

“C’mon, pretty,” a voice snarled in her ear, and she moaned faintly when he hoisted her up under the armpits and dragged her out the door. The rough motion of the floor scraping against her new injury was awful, but she managed to put it aside, even as her stomach churned with excess pain that took the form of nausea. “Shouldn’t’ve yelled like that,” her captor went on. She was vaguely aware of him opening a door and a cool breeze ruffling her hair. “You could’ve gotten through this just fine, but you had to raise a fuss, didn’t you? They warned me you were stupid.”

This dredged up a faint, indignant echo somewhere in the back of Jane’s mind, but everything hurt too much for her to focus on it. Her hazy vision registered a trail of blood winding down a hallway before the door behind them closed and they were completely outside. 

The pain became completely overwhelming at this point, sickeningly awful, and it was only distantly that she registered the next motions she was being put through—shoved in a car, something was being done to her leg, and a rumble shook the seat she was strapped in as the motor roared to life. Still, it was some immeasurable number of minutes before she managed to focus on her surroundings. 

The wound was pulsing, but in an uncomfortable way, not an angry one. They must have numbed it somehow. And she was in the backseat of a vehicle with heavily tinted windows, bouncing up and down slightly as they cruised along a highway that she couldn’t see. Her body was weak and sore from the drug-and-gun double punch it had recently received, confirming that an attempt to escape would be idiotic. Doing _anything_ seemed impossible, really. She just wanted to sleep, to be home in 221B and not on this pointless mission of Sherlock’s. She didn’t even know _why_ she’d been kidnapped. Well, did she ever? It wasn’t like such a thing had never happened before. It would be amusing, how many times such a thing had happened, if every instance wasn’t life-threatening. 

“Um…” Feeling quite dumb, she leaned forward slightly, wincing as the too-tight seatbelt cut into her shoulder. “Where… where are we going?” The dark figure in the seat in front of her made no move towards replying. She glanced suddenly to her left, half-hoping to see Mycroft’s assistant— _Anthea,_ that was the name she’d created for herself—sitting there, but there was nothing. “Really,” she went on a bit desperately, “don’t I have the right to know what’s going on to me? Just… please? Or why I have to be kidnapped?” _Again?_ “At least tell me who’s behind this.”

To her surprise, a low grumble came from the front at this. “Moriarty.”

Oh. Of course. 

She hadn’t seen a trace of Moriarty since the pool, and couldn’t say that she’d been hoping to, either. For a couple of minutes, she attempted to shoot a couple more directions in the direction of the driver, to no avail. It seemed that all he was letting her know is that the most dangerous enemy she and Sherlock had ever encountered was after them again, and had chosen to take her first and ask questions later. 

Where _was_ Sherlock when she needed him? It was getting ridiculous. _Late._ He did have a thing with coming in the precise nick of time. _If he comes at all._ But of course he would. He always did. Only once had he failed to, and that was when the one responsible for taking her wasn’t dangerous at all. That had been Mycroft, who this most certainly wasn’t.

“How… how much longer is it?” she tried tentatively. There was no verbal response, but the car’s sudden turn to the right was the equivalent of one. Within thirty seconds, they had come to a halt, and her door was being opened. 

“Scream,” the man in charge of her growled, “and you know what you get.”

The cold metal pressing firmly against her right shoulder confirmed the truth of his statement. And, whatever he’d said earlier, Jane _wasn’t_ stupid. She could resist her primal survival reflexes when needed, and even though this was certainly an incident that they’d deem a reasonable opportunity to exercise themselves, she managed to hold them back and stay silent. The slim chance of help being nearby wasn’t worth another bullet. Already, nervous twinges were running through her leg wound, indicating that it wouldn’t be much longer before the pain was fully back. 

She was half-led, half-dragged into the pitch-black, extremely run-down house they were approaching, her mind whirring furiously as she tried to plot a way out. There seemed to be no option other than to wait for Sherlock, as absolutely frustrating as that was. She was completely at the mercy of her captors… whoever they were. It seemed to be several long, halting minutes before she reached the top of the staircase leading up to the front door. A key turned in the lock, and then they were heading down a dark hallway, his grip on her hand uncomfortably tight. After they entered a room that she vaguely felt was bigger, he forced her into a hard chair, pulled her hands around at the back, and swiftly cuffed them together, an action that made her widen her eyes in utter incredulity. She couldn’t decide whether to be disgusted or flattered at the fact that they seemed to consider her a threat even with a bad leg and residual drugs in her system—enough so, anyway, to make sure that her hands, too, were useless. 

Footsteps echoed through the deathly quiet room as the man who’d secured her tromped out, leaving her alone with the harsh grating sound of her own elevated breath. Her eyes strained at the soupy blackness, but every time she thought she caught a faint trace of the room’s contours, she’d blink and they’d vanish. It really was quite dark. 

_It would be nice,_ she reflected dully a while later, _if they at least told me what I was here for…_

As if cued by her thoughts, there was, quite suddenly, a flurry of quick, light taps on the floor: the unmistakable sound of another entering the room. A faint click split the silent air, and a bulb flickered on above her head, the dusty, dark yellow light illuminating her surroundings. A grimy sink, a cracked tub—

“ _Another_ bathroom?” Jane questioned amazedly. 

A high, girlish giggle came from the door, and she whipped her head around to see the face of Jim Moriarty, sallow and waxy from the unflattering lighting, smirking at her, his slim form propped against the doorframe. 

“Jane Watson,” he murmured, teeth glinting as he curled his top lip back in an imitation of a grin. “Oh, it is good to see you again.”

“Can’t say the same to you,” she muttered hoarsely, wincing as a sharp throb ran through her leg. Whatever had numbed it was certainly wearing off—perhaps it was only meant to serve for the journey here. Her words were true—any unknown or somehow trivial criminal would be a much more welcome sight than _this._ Of course, there had always been a possibility that it was Moriarty who was after her, but she’d most certainly been hoping that it wasn’t so.

Clearly, it was.

“Well, that’s horribly rude of you,” he criticized, his features darkening in an exaggerated pout. “I thought we’d have a nice little reunion, but it seems you aren’t up for that.”

“Last time you took me like this,” she reminded him wearily, “I ended up hooked up to enough explosives to blow a house.”

“And you talk about it so _carelessly._ Some would call it courageous, but do you know what, Jane? I don’t think that you’re courageous at all. I just think that you’re too _thick_ to comprehend the _danger_ you’re in right now, and that’s why you choose to make all the wrong, _rude_ decisions.” 

Jane was abruptly reminded of Mycroft’s words to her the night after she’d first met Sherlock— _ah, the bravery of the soldier. Bravery is by far the kindest word for stupidity, don’t you think?_ She wished pointlessly that it was Mycroft who had her now—he would never hurt her, not really, as dramatic and powerful as he often made himself out to be. 

But no. She was with Moriarty now, as awful as that was, and she’d have to accept it if she wanted to get anywhere whatsoever.

“How about,” she began evenly, a small measure of coldness added purposefully to her voice, “you tell me why I’m here, and we’ll work from there.”

“Ooh, good,” he praised, looking delighted. “Are we trying to possibly _negotiate_ our way out? Oh, Jane. Jane, Jane, Jane, that isn’t happening this time. Or should I call you Samantha? My dear friend, I’m sure, won’t be at all pleased when she finds out that such an ugly little bitch was impersonating her.” His voice glided smoothly over the words, not hesitating in the least on the insult. Jane tried to keep her flinch internal, reminding herself that such a low, pathetic jab should have no effect on her, especially from an extremely dangerous psychopath. 

“I have the right to know your feud with me,” she insisted.

His eyes stared penetratingly into hers, large and dark. “Feud with _you?_ Why, I don’t have one of _those._ You’re annoying, yes, but… well…” The corners of his pale mouth twitched. “We all must contend with some amount of irritation in our lives, I’m afraid… no, this is for darling _Sherlock._ Just a game for him to play… a test to see just how far he’ll go for his little girlie.” 

“But _why_?”

His scowl came out of nowhere, but then it was there, fierce and frightening, morphing his formerly mild face into a mask of fury. “Because I’m _bored!_ ” The last word was screamed, so that she found herself jerking away from the noise, her wrists aching as the action disturbed the handcuffs. 

_Bored. Bored. Bored._ She had thought that Sherlock had alarming ways of entertaining himself in the best of times (a bullet-ridden wall and extra hundred pounds on the rent bill came to mind), but kidnapping for amusement… that was a whole new level. She attempted to shift in her chair without further aggravation of the cuffs. There would have to be some way for her to bide time until he came, lest Moriarty grow even more _bored_ and choose to kill her—most likely in a slow, painful way. 

He continued to watch her, lounging, for a number of minutes. She stared back, refusing to look away. “Sherlock _is_ coming for me, you know,” she told him lowly. “If you think that he’s just going to ignore that I’m gone, you’re wrong. He’s going to come.”

“Don’t be _so_ sure,” the criminal taunted. But she had to. It was all she had to hold on to. If Sherlock wasn’t coming… but that was stupid. Of course he could come. Any moment he’d be there, and all that she had to do was hang in there until there, and try to get injured as little as possible. A brief instant of silence occurred, before he let a noisy sigh and slouched down slightly. “I _would_ hope that he’d be on his way by now, though. It’s _late._ I’m _bored._ ”

 _Better bored than scared out of your wits,_ Jane thought grimly. She stiffened as her leg throbbed again. 

“I _could_ just kill you,” he reflected casually, and she caught her breath, watching with rapt attention as her fate tilted along the perimeter of his mind, tipping threateningly side to side. She had as much chance of dying as living—and it all depended on his mood.

What if this _was_ it? What if, after everything, this was how she’d die—killed, quite literally, by boredom? A faint hope that there was enough humanity left in Moriarty to save her rose momentarily before sinking below the surface of her franticness again. That was stupid. He’d killed someone just to meet Sherlock, and risked the lives of four others in the process, quite carelessly. 

“But… hm… I have a hostage, I love those. There must be _something_ to do with you… you’re not _that_ horribly dull, are you?” He scrutinized her, then shook his head. “You’re Jane Watson. Plain as plain could be. Even your name—sad, really. Quite sad. It’s out of pure luck that you found yourself stuck between two much cleverer, more important men…” A sudden, frustrated growl escaped his lips, an animal sound that was completely out of place coming from the small man in the Westwood suit. He stalked forwards two steps and leaned down before her, his face inches from hers. She withdrew, flattening her own form against the chair as far as it would go in order to escape the probing flicker of his black eyes. 

“I can’t decide,” he breathed. “I can’t decide whether you should live…” The tips of his pale fingers teased at the tips of her hair. “…Or die…” Then he stood up again abruptly and whisked around, returning to the doorway before leaning back to face her. “What do you think, Jane, hm? Wouldn’t it be just _priceless_ to see the look on Sherlock’s face when he realized that he was too late…?”

Her breath hitched up, seeming to catch on an invisible obstruction in her lungs. She didn’t want to picture that. Didn’t want to imagine him upset. _If he’d be upset at all…_ really, she couldn’t be sure how he would react. There was certainly a possibility that he wouldn’t be sorry at all, just frustrated with himself for failing the challenge… it was hard to tell, with Sherlock. Hard to tell whether he really cared about anyone… somehow, she found it extremely difficult to imagine him, well… _crying_ about her being dead perhaps, or losing control in any way. It just wouldn’t be Sherlock. She couldn’t claim such magnificent self-control—if he was the one in her position, she’d be hysterical. This way was definitely better. 

But it still hurt. 

“You know what,” Moriarty mused, “I think I know what I can do.”

“…And what’s that?” she dared to ask when he made no further move.

His eyes gleamed, and a physical chill sank ran through the marrow of her bones as he reached into a pocket of his suit and removed a small metal contraption. A single soft click later, it was revealed to be a razor.

“Oh, no,” she stammered at his soundless, cougar-like grin. “No, no, no. I—come on, please—no, _please—”_

But nothing seemed to be able to stop his steady advancing. The blade, small and sharp, narrowing on the left to a delicate point, glinted in the low light, and she began to hyperventilate, feet scrabbling at the floor. She managed to overturn her chair, and landed on her side with a sharp exclamation of pain. But now she was in an even worse position than before, the muscles of her arms straining against the contorted position they had been forced into, the handcuffs biting her skin. 

“ _Please!_ ” she screamed wildly as the razor came closer. She kicked at the ground fruitlessly, tears coming to her eyes. “Please, I’ll do anything—I’ll do anything—” Her brain had reverted completely to its most primitive setting, so that all she could comprehend was that she had to get away from that sharp edge that was getting ever closer… 

“Anything?” Moriarty purred, crouching down and holding it centimeters from her face. She froze, going from wild thrashes to absolutely no movement whatsoever. Even her lungs held still, and, if it was possible, her heart would have stopped beating. She didn’t know whether to talk or not. All of her senses were horribly alert and vivid, all too conscious of the light dancing off his razor blade.

“I don’t believe you,” he snickered to himself. “I really don’t. You’re too _heroic_ for that. And speaking of _heroes…_ where’s your precious Sherlock now, hm? Looks like he didn’t come quite soon enough…”

The blade flicked forward, and a hot flash of pain raced across her cheek. She screamed, pulling away and reflexively trying to bring a hand to the wound, which resulted only in an aching stab to her wrists. Her eyes were watering, and her leg was pulsating with agony, the numbing agent seeming to have completely worn off. A combination of sweat and blood was slicking her hands now, and scarlet liquid from the wound on her cheek was trickling along her face, hot and bright where it dripped on the dirty tile floor. 

“Please,” she choked out, her throat ragged from the previous moment’s piercing shriek. “Pl-please…” 

“You’re begging,” Moriarty observed with evident amusement in his voice. “Oh, this _is_ good… let’s go a bit deeper now, though, shall we?”

He raised the blade, which now had a thick glisten of red-tinted black on its edge, and a hacking sob worked its way out of her throat in preparation for its fall. “No need to keep the scars pretty,” he breathed. His voice was trembling with horrible, warped delight. “We can get in your eyes… mess it all up…”

“You might want to rethink that plan of yours.”

Jane’s eyes widened as she looked up wildly, just in time to see Moriarty do the same. There was a heavy _thunk,_ a yelp of pain, and the psychopath’s dark form slumped down, thrown to the side as Sherlock knelt before her. 

“Are you okay?” he demanded, quickly undoing her handcuffs and pulling her up by the shoulders. She winced as it put pressure on her leg, but nothing could stifle the surge of gratitude and relief rising up in her chest. It was so overwhelming that she didn’t even think to answer his question, instead just took in the sight of him, of the dark curls hanging over his forehead, those gray-green eyes staring intently into hers. “ _Are you okay?_ ” he repeated, giving her a tiny shake.

“Yeah… I’m fine. Fine.”

“Good,” Sherlock murmured, and then he leaned forward and kissed her.


	3. Chapter 3

Her first thought: God, I must have been drunk last night.

After all, what else could possibly explain the current state of her body? She felt like she'd been set on fire, dumped off a rooftop, and then run over by a truck after hitting the ground. Possibly more than one. No other combination of circumstances could account for the pounding ache in every cell of her exhausted body, not to mention the cottony fog that seemed to be stretched over just about every useful area of her mind. The idea of actually remembering whatever occurred before she completely succumbed to what must have been alcohol was truly laughable. Still, she pressed her mind as hard as possible, searching in all the dark corners. There had been something... with a party... and probably a party that contained no absence of wine...

Damn.

Once these considerations appropriately managed to put some semblance of rest to her first inquiry, another question floated through the cloudy expanse of her mind.

Where am I?

It struck her at the moment that perhaps opening her eyes would help to assist in the answering of this. And so she attempted to, but it was hardly easy. It actually felt as though her eyelids were weighted down, and when she so much as twitched them, a painful stab hit her in the temples. Apprehension began to curl in her chest- to be this utterly wiped, she was probably drinking for a reason last night. Probably a reason she didn't even want to remember.

And this bed didn't feel familiar...

Shit.

This sickening prospect managed to provide enough leverage for her to finally open her eyes properly, then squeeze them shut again almost instantly. Everything was extremely white, and extremely bright, as well. White... bright... light. Ugh. Maybe sleeping some more wouldn't hurt. Her headache was pounding worse than ever, though. Maybe it would be good to see if wherever she happened to be had any pills to help with it.

At this point, her other senses began to focus a bit more acutely, and she noticed that everything smelled rather like disinfectant. Enough so, in fact, for her nose to sting a bit. In drowsily pulling a pillow towards her face to block the odor, she discovered that the soft thing under her head had what seemed to be a disposable cover.

Hospital, her mind told her. A few moments later, she managed to pin a definition to the three syllables, and with it came another downward swerve of her stomach and a choice number of explicit phrases flooding her thoughts. Luckily, the horror also managed to fuel her enough to properly get her eyes open, and take a look at her surroundings.

Yeah. Definitely a hospital. Overly sanitary sheets, dull white walls, some sort of machine, plastic chairs for guests, Sherlock.

Wait- Sherlock?

Her bleary gaze stumbled backwards, managing to refocus. It was indeed Sherlock, perched a bit stiffly in one of the seats, his long fingers repeatedly drumming out an impatient staccato rhythm on its arm. His eyes were fixated on her, and, understandably, she reacted by scooting slightly backwards, rather alarmed by the penetrating stare. Her leg responded with a ferocious pang, and then it began to come back- first in a trickle, then a stream, and finally a barrage. The party, Samantha Jones, burlap sack, gun, car, bathrooms, more bathrooms, Moriarty, Sherlock, kissing.

Oh, right.

Kissing.

"D'you think you could... stop looking at me like that?" she asked shakily, feeling her cheeks radiate sudden heat. She couldn't quite manage to draw her own gaze away from his mouth, and something inside of her twinged when his lips moved in speech.

"I'd rather not. I'm a bit concerned about you, at the moment."

"Why?" It was possibly the most idiotic question she'd ever asked, considering that she was half-lying in a hospital bed with a bandaged leg and a massive headache that was doubtless an affect of the multiple drugs she'd been introduced to the previous night.

"I'm sure that even you know the answer to that, Jane."

She sighed, neither confirming nor denying, and struggled to raise herself a bit higher on the mound of pillows that had been placed behind her head. "What exactly... happened? I mean, I remember the general... stuff... obviously..." She located a tiny hole in her sheet, and began to pick at it with interest. "But... the end. After we left the house with Moriarty."

"I'm not surprised that you can't recall it. You were a bit... woozy. They didn't let me ride with you in the ambulance, but you were unconscious by the time they took you out and moved you to the emergency room. It's morning now... they only just let me in, as a matter of fact. Apparently you hadn't woken up until now."

"Wonderful," she groaned, "just brilliant. Should I ask how bad the leg wound is...?"

"You should be out in a couple of weeks."

Weeks. Oh, perfect. "Next time," she hissed, "it would be nice if you considered my safety before launching me into a party where there was even a chance of me getting shot and kidnapped."

"Jane-" He looked surprisingly worked up, and she noticed his hand tighten their grip on the chair. He half-rose, then stayed that way, finally making the decision to rise to his full height and shuffle towards the bed. She watched him silently, not sure how to react as he awkwardly extended his hand towards her. She didn't move hers, but rather let it remain in place. It was his chance if he wanted to take it or not. Apparently, such an action was too big a leap for him, because he let it drop.

"I... I am sorry," he finally mumbled, not meeting her eyes. "I never suspected that Moriarty would find a way to get involved. If I had any idea, I wouldn't have... put you in danger like that. You being injured is... upsetting, I can assure you."

"Oh, lighten up, will you?" she finally sighed, half-smiling at him. "There's nothing wrong with saying that you were concerned about me. It's... nice, actually."

"Nice? Is it?"

"Yeah. Very nice."

"Good. That's... yes, quite good." He gave a small cough, swallowing heavily. "If you're fine, then, I guess I'll..."

"Oh, stop it," she muttered, getting some leverage with her elbows so that their faces were nearly level.

His eyes- what color were they? Gray-blue, normally, but right now they seemed green. Bright, beautiful, exquisite green. And the emotion contained in their cautious depths- it was shyness, almost. Not an expression that she'd ever expected to see on Sherlock, but now that it was there, it was undeniably... well, adorable.

"Stop what?"

"Stop being so damn cute," she muttered, then leaned in and kissed him on the lips, so lightly that it was hardly more than a faint brush. She felt him tense, and pulled back, watching as her mind was consumed by a chaotic cacophony of Why the hell did you do that crossed with Is it bad for him to look so confused and a bit of God, this man really is an idiot.

"Cute?" he repeated, speaking the word as though it was an obscene curse.

"Yes, Sherlock, cute. Extremely cute, as a matter of fact." So he doesn't seem too put off so far. That's good. She reached out and closed her fingers around his wrist, carefully gauging his reaction. He glanced down for a moment, looking almost confused, then back up at her.

"What about me is... cute?" he questioned suspiciously, a stray curl dangling right between his eyes. She held back a giggle. He certainly didn't seem upset. And that was all the indication she needed to go on.

"Everything, you idiot," she whispered, then leaned in to kiss him again.


End file.
